Take This Longing
by picascribit
Summary: 1981: If Remus doesn't need him anymore, then what's the point of anything? Warning: violence, suspicion, jealousy. Written for the 2010 R/S Games. "Take This Longing" lyrics by Leonard Cohen.


_Oh, take this longing from my tongue_  
_Whatever useless things these hands have done_  
_Let me see your beauty broken down_  
_Like you would do for one you love_

Sometimes I wonder if I'm losing my mind. Maybe it's just the war getting to me. Maybe it's all those generations of inbreeding you and James used to joke about. Or maybe it's you. Maybe I'm losing you, Moony.

You were gone for so long this time. Longer than we've ever been apart since we started. Longer than you said you'd be away. You missed the full moon, and when was the last time we spent one of those apart? I spent the night at the park, lying in the grass with my head on my paws, staring up at the sky and wondering where you were. I know the missions are important - of course they are - but three weeks without any word is too fucking long.

When I came home this afternoon and I saw your good winter cloak folded over the back of the chair, I had to touch the blue wool to be sure I wasn't imagining it. And then I felt dizzy, because you were home. You were safe.

I found you in the bedroom, unpacking, a handful of crushed laurel leaves - a souvenir of France - falling from your fingers onto the nightstand. You looked like you hadn't slept or shaved in a week, and I couldn't bear not to be touching you. I didn't ask. Not then. Not about the mission. Not about what had kept you from me for so long. Not why you hadn't sent word. It didn't matter. Only that you were there, warm, safe, alive, whole.

For one moment, everything was right. Your arms, tight around me, your forehead pressed to mine, twin sighs of relief mingling on our breath. But then I looked up into your eyes, and I saw that you weren't there at all. It scared me, Moony. My mouth reached instinctively for yours, looking for reassurance and finding none.

"Moony -"

"I'm tired, Sirius."

You looked it, and you sounded it, and I did what I always do: I gave you what you needed. I left you alone and let you sleep and escape whatever it was that you were still running from.

I had expected to feel glad that you were home, but I just felt numb. I may not have taken Divination, but when something's wrong, a bloke knows it in his bones without needing to be told. I tried to do things to distract myself while you slept. I couldn't concentrate on reading. I didn't feel like eating. I mixed myself a drink and watched the ice melt. I thought about going out, but what if you needed me and I wasn't there?

And now, as the night begins to creep into our flat, I can't stand it anymore. I don't put on any lights for fear of seeing that look in your eyes again. There's no sound in the darkness of the bedroom but your breathing, the soft crumple of my tee-shirt and jeans hitting the floor, the wild beat of my heart as I slide between the cool sheets, offering up my body to you, a "welcome home" present.

_Use me,_ I beg silently, hungering for the feel of your skin against mine after so long, my cock hard and aching against your thigh. _Let me be whatever it is that you need right now._

My balls feel tight, like I haven't come in weeks, even though I wanked thinking of you morning and night - and plenty of times in between - every day since you left. I've been hungry for you since I was fourteen years old, and no matter how many times you touch me, it's never going to be enough. _God_, I want you in me! It's been weeks since we fucked properly, even before you went. I shiver, remembering the days when you'd come home from your missions ready to claim me like my body was the spoils of war.

"Remus -" My lips move against the back of your neck as my fingers stroke your belly, moving lower to curve my palm around your cock.

You aren't even hard.

Maybe you're still just tired. Maybe I should've let you have a full night's sleep before asking you to fuck me. But you turn toward me, your hands hard around my wrists, urging me back, pinning me to the bed, and I go willingly, rejoicing in your need. _Please, Moony. Yours. Now. Always._

But you don't say anything, and your lips never touch mine. Not a kiss or a caress anywhere. Just your mouth wrapped around my cock, sucking me in harsh demand.

God, Moony! What is this? What do you think you're doing? Is this what you thought I wanted when I touched you? This isn't passion. It's obligation. It's charity. It's _emptiness_.

I don't think I can get off on it. I hate myself a little when I do. You don't say anything then, either. You just wipe your mouth and turn away, pretending to go back to sleep.

Cold anger flares in my chest. At you for offering me emptiness. At myself for taking it. Sex with you has never been empty before. In nearly five years, you've never held back from me.

_It's not supposed to be like this!_ I want to shout at your back. But the weight of this fucking war has crushed how it was supposed to be, hasn't it? Things haven't been right in a while. But still, they've never been like this.

Your breathing changes when you're really asleep. It takes almost an hour after we - did whatever you'd call that. I look at you, watching your face, and I can't stay angry. Not with you, Moony. I can only wonder what happened to you on this mission, and how long it will take me to discover all the new ways that you're wounded and bring you back to yourself.

You're so lovely when you sleep, my Moony. You're lovely other times, too. When you smile unexpectedly. When you laugh. When you come. You're lovely almost all the time, even though you never believe me when I tell you. I count myself lucky to be the one who gets to see you in all your beauty, and sometimes I feel sorry for the rest of the world that they can't see it, too. But only sometimes. I'm a selfish bastard that way.

Moved by tenderness, I raise a hand to brush the feathers of your hair away from your face. And that's when it happens. That's the moment when the bottom drops out of my world.

A name falls from your dreaming lips into the darkness of our bed, and it's not mine.

"_Alexandre._"

I snatch my hand back, clenching it into a fist and biting down on my fingers to avoid making any sound that might wake you. I can't breathe. I'd be sick, only my guts are frozen into a solid lump of ice. No, Moony. You didn't. God, please tell me you didn't!

Alexandre d'Argenson. The beautiful, blue-eyed boy who spirited you away to France for your mission. I knew, of course. I could tell from the way he looked at you that he wanted you - that he saw you as clearly as I do. I told myself then that I was ridiculous to be jealous over him, because you would _never_ - not with some French bloke you barely knew. I mean more to you than that, don't I, Moony?

But now, watching you twitch and murmur in your sleep, I realise that the foundation I've built my life on - that you need me as much as I need you - may not be as solid as I've always thought. You're still sleeping and still lovely, but everything feels different now.

I want to shake you awake - demand you to deny it - force you to prove yourself faithful with your body. Trial by sex. But I don't do it. You're tired. You need your sleep. And I'm pretty sure I don't I want to know.

In a way, I understand it. Who could understand better than I what it's been like for you all these years? I know the mission was werewolves this time. I overheard you and Dumbledore talking about it, before. If there was even a whisper about a cure, of course you had to go, and for as long as it took. I would never have stood in your way.

And I understand about the rest of it, too, in a way. I know what you get like before the full moon, with the wolf so close to the surface. If he was there - if he was offering you what you needed most just then - can I really blame you for taking him to your bed?

Yes, I bloody well can! Because I've seen him. Dark blue eyes, a mop of brown curls, those lush red lips curving in a secretive smile, and not a day over eighteen. If I hadn't seen him, I wouldn't be able to imagine what he looked like with his legs wrapped around you, moaning with every thrust - what's French for "fuck me"? Did you think of me while you were fucking him? Whose name did you call out when you came inside him?

Damn you, Remus. How could you do it? I wish I could be angry - I wish I could hate you right now - but all I am is bloody terrified, because in taking him, you've erased me.

I rejected everything I was and remade myself for Gryffindor, for James, but most of all for you. Family, money, position. What was that to me? You showed me - you and James - how little any of it meant - how little I had before I met you. You showed me that true wealth is measured in friendship, and in love.

You taught me that word. Love. You used to use it all the time, while it stalled and died on my tongue. Somehow you knew the truth, even when I couldn't say it. But when was the last time you said it to me? If you said it now, would I believe you if you couldn't show me you meant it?

I can still say it: I love you, Moony. I completely fucking love you with everything I have. Loving you is like breathing. As long as I'm alive, I can never stop. Even now, when it hurts so much I could scream.

It used to be so easy. Do you remember?

The first time you wept in my arms, you were twelve years old. Your tears were so beautiful, and your brokenness was the most real thing I had ever seen. I barely understood at the time what you gave me, how you trusted me. It was the first time in my life I ever felt necessary. Suddenly, I had this beautiful, glowing Purpose, and I was hungry for more. I would go back and live in that moment forever if I could. I know I sound like a melodramatic fucker, but I think maybe that's when I fell in love with you.

For you, I turned my back on my family, my inheritance, my name. For you, I tainted my blood, even though you asked me not to. For you, I learned healing magic when I was meant to be studying for OWLs. I worked for years and so many sleepless nights to become an Animagus, so that you would never need to be alone again. I said vows and made promises and carved your name on my heart. I gave myself to you in a hundred different ways. I've been your friend and your lover and your shield against a hostile world. Everything you needed, I willingly became. For you, my Moony. Always and only.

This war gets more unbearable every day, with no end it sight. We're losing, and we know it. It's only a matter of time. But you never show it. All I see in you these days is the steel at the core. Why don't you show me that brokenness I fell in love with anymore? I know it's still there. Some things never heal. All I want is for you to show me that you're as heartsick over all this as I am. When did you stop trusting me? What did I do to make you pull away?

It seems like everything is moving away from me these days. Father and Regulus are dead. We hardly ever see Andromeda and her family anymore. Peter's too busy looking after his sick mother to keep in touch. There's still James, obviously, but he's got Lily and Harry to think of now. Even the Aurors decided they didn't want me, because apparently loving you and working in law enforcement is a "conflict of interests".

I could live with all that. Sure, I'd growl and rage and shake my fist at the sky, but so long as I still had you, I could grit my teeth and get through anything the world threw at us. But if I'm losing you, too, then what have I got left, Moony? What's the point of me? Of everything I've ever done? What is there left to fight for?

* * *

Breakfast seems pointless. Tea seems pointless. Shaving or showering - what's the fucking use when all I can hear are my own thoughts, chasing each other in mindless circles? It's a wonder the shouting in my head doesn't wake you. It seems so much louder than the clank of the kettle on the hob.

It's the kettle's whistle that finally gets you out of bed. You stumble into the kitchen in your dressing gown, hair all mussed. So lovely. You look better than you did last night. Rested, anyway. But then, you slept. Good for you.

Wordlessly, I set a steaming mug in front of you. I know better than to open my mouth. I haven't slept and my guts are twisted in knots, but I don't want to fight with you because you don't fight. James shouts right back at me, giving as good as he gets, but you hate confrontation. You'd rather avoid, dismiss, change the subject.

"You look like hell."

"Couldn't sleep." So much for keeping my mouth shut.

"Sorry."

I risk a quick glance to gauge your apology. Sorry I couldn't sleep? Sorry about last night? Sorry you were gone for so long? Sorry you fucked someone who wasn't me? But your face is set in the carefully-blank mask you show the rest of the world. You haven't given me that look in _years_. That look has no place in our kitchen. I turn my back on it and apply myself to the sink full of dirty dishes with unaccustomed violence.

"Sirius -"

"What?" The word explodes from my lips like the crack of a whip.

A sigh, long-suffering. "It's been a long few weeks, Sirius. The last thing I need right now is you in a strop."

I turn back to stare at you, disbelieving. How _dare_ you be so fucking dismissive of me?

"Yeah? Well, pardon me for thinking you might be pleased to see me. The past few weeks haven't exactly been a picnic for me, either."

Another sigh. "Of course I'm pleased to see you, Sirius. I'm just tired."

There you go, trying to avoid and evade again. Well, not this time. We're not about to start talking about the bloody weather or what we're having for supper tonight. Maybe I don't want to know, but I'm going to make you tell me anyway, because I know it's the last thing you want to do right now.

"Did you have a good time in France?" My arms are folded across my chest. I can match you stony look for stony look.

There's that little crease between your brows. You're annoyed now. Good.

"Your 'mission'," I press, eyes never leaving yours. "The pretty one. Did he show you a good time?"

"Sirius, what -?"

"I heard you," I snap, clamping down hard on my voice to keep the quaver out of it. You don't get to know what a punch in the gut it is for me. "Last night. Saying his name in your sleep. So what I'm wondering is, did you plan it? Or was it something that 'just happened' while you were working together?"

It's no good. There's a sob trapped in my chest, clawing its way out. Between that and the stinging in my eyes, I'm about to make an utter, utter disgraceful fool of myself in front of you. And you can see it. You stand abruptly and step toward me. I whirl away again, hiding my face

Deep breaths. Control. Your hand on my shoulder. I flinch away.

"Sirius -"

"Did you fuck him, Remus?" My voice is harsh and raw in my own ears, unrecognisable. "Don't lie to me. If I'm going to come home one day and find him in our bed, I want to know it now."

I swallow hard and dare to look at you again. I'm still a Gryffindor, aren't I? But I can't quite meet your eyes, so I look at your mouth instead. Lips pressed into a grim line. Jaw tight.

"He's dead."

"Oh." The grim finality in your voice leaves me winded, off-balance. "How - how did he -?"

"Messily. I'd really rather not talk about it right now, Sirius, if it's all the same to you."

* * *

For two weeks you avoid and I let you. Order business, you say, or errands. Only I saw you sitting by yourself at that little cafe down the street the other day. And when I dropped by headquarters, they said you hadn't been in.

It's a little game we're playing. We pretend everything's normal. To our friends. To the outside world. Even to each other sometimes. You're better at it than I am. You've had years more practice in lying and hiding and fake smiles. You could almost fool me. Or you could if you ever tried to touch me. But you don't. Not since that first night.

I lie awake, staring at your back, longing to reach across the chasm between us, knowing you get as little sleep as I do. If you'd only turn toward me, see how close my hand is to touching you, reach across to find me here, maybe we could weather this storm together, safe in one another's arms. When I do sleep, I dream that I'm slipping away into your past, like a place you don't visit anymore.

We don't talk. Not about France. Not about him. Not about anything to do with _us_. If there even is an 'us' anymore. Sometimes it feels like we're just waiting for something else to come along and sweep us apart completely.

Maybe it's not you that's changed; maybe it's me. When we were at school, I think I was a better man, revelling in life and full of high ideals. You were faithful to the boy I was, but I can feel him slipping away from me, day by day. The real world forces us to compromise and compromise until there's hardly anything left. Maybe that's what you saw in him - your French boy - maybe he hadn't needed to make any of those hard choices yet. And now he never will. He'll be perfect and young in your memory forever, while we live on and break down and lose ourselves.

Just tell me we haven't lost yet, Moony. You're still here, aren't you? All I want is for you to show me you still feel something - that this connection we share still matters to you. Just turn to me and say, "I hate this," or "I need it," or - please, God, let it still be true - "I love you".

God knows, I still feel something. I feel too bloody much sometimes. You'd think it would be anger or sadness, wouldn't you? And there is that. But that's nothing compared to the sick dread that's been camping out in my guts ever since you got back. I've felt ill with fear for you before, my Moony, but never _because_ of you. I hate this so much I can't bear it. One way or another, it's got to stop. I'll make you feel something if it kills me.

* * *

The Arrangement was made before Harry was born. James and Lily were in danger. We all knew it. There was the possibility of a spy in our ranks. But James couldn't stay locked away at home all the time. He'd go mad. I know I would. Of course Lily wouldn't let him take foolish risks, and even less so once Harry came along. So we came up with the Arrangement.

Once a month, the shining silver stag of James's Patronus would appear and deliver the name of a Muggle pub in a random city, and the three of us would drop everything and Apparate as close to it as we could get. If we weren't all there within fifteen minutes, the meeting was declared unsafe, and we'd leave at once. If one of us _was_ a spy, then the other three were there to keep an eye on him. There were still dangers, but the variable dates and locations kept them to a minimum.

Tonight, it's Birmingham, and the pub is -

"The Horse's Arse?" Your voice holds a trace of amusement, so rare these days.

I can't help but snort. James could never resist a place with a name like that.

Fortunately, we're already in Muggle clothes, so we Apparate straight to the designated "safe spot" for Birmingham. The pub will be somewhere within a half-mile radius. You ask directions from an elderly chap in a tweed jacket as I glance around, trying to orient myself. Once we have our bearings, we don't waste any time, legging it the whole way.

When we arrive, out of breath, James and Peter are already there, and - surprise of all surprises - James has brought nine-month-old Harry with him.

"I'm under strict instructions to Apparate straight home if there's any funny business," James says with a grin.

There's manly embraces all round then, but it's you I'm watching. When James hands Harry to you, your eyes light up and you smile for the first time in ages. So lovely. It's like looking at the same old Moony as always, and for a moment I think maybe I've been wrong about everything. Could a smile like that really be another lie? I want to believe this whole spy business is bollocks, and that you'd never do a thing like that, but you lie so easily when Peter asks how you've been.

"Oh, fine," you say, cradling Harry against your chest with one arm while you reach for the pint in front of you with the other. "Sorry I missed your birthday, by the way, Prongs. I'll make sure to be around for it next year."

It's bad enough thinking that you might have betrayed me, without thinking you could be capable of betraying our friends as well. What did you learn on your mission? Were the rumours true? Has Voldemort found the cure we've been looking for all these years? Did he offer it to you? Would our friends' lives buy you a normal life for yourself? If you'd found out anything, you'd tell me, wouldn't you? But I can't ask, because that's France, and we're not talking about that, are we? Suffice it to say, if you ever try to hurt them, I _will_ kill you, even if I can never stop loving you.

"All right, Sirius?" James grins at me, and I hate myself for having to lie to him, too.

"Can't complain," I mutter, burying my nose in my beer.

I'm not feeling very sociable tonight, as if that's much of a surprise. Peter's pretty quiet, too. His mum's worse again, and he's feeling guilty about being out. We mostly let you and James carry the conversation. Then you're off to the loo, and handing Harry over to me. Normally I love spending time with my godson. He's brilliant and I love him to pieces. But I think at the moment he could probably do better than his growly Uncle Padfoot.

"How've things been since he's been back?" his father asks quietly. James knows things have been weird lately. I talked to him a bit while you were away.

"We haven't fucked in more than a month, if that's what you're asking." I know his concern is genuine, but it's a sore subject for me at the moment, so maybe I'm a bit sharper with him than I should be.

Peter winces and James grimaces. "Yes, Padfoot. That's _exactly_ what I wanted to know. D'you have to say things like that in front of Harry?"

"Why shouldn't I? He's bound to find out sooner or later that his godfather likes a bit of werewolf cock up the arse."

"_Sirius!_"

"Sorry," I say distractedly. There's a bloke at the bar eyeing me up and down. Long hair. Sideburns. Tight trousers. Nice arse. He catches my eye and raises his brows, a knowing smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Things have just been a bit - strained lately."

"I'm sure he missed you," Peter offers quietly.

"Yeah, well, he doesn't act much like it."

James looks unimpressed. "Well, whatever it is that's going on between you two, fix it."

_Fix it._ That was always James's advice when we were at school, too. As if it's always that simple, or even possible.

"You fix it," I say, passing Harry back to him. "I'm going to get another drink."

I go to lean on the bar, not making eye contact. "Can I buy you a drink?" I ask.

"I'd never say 'no' to someone as gorgeous as you."

That warrants a smile. "Good to know."

It's Glen Livet, neat, for both of us. Not bad for a Muggle drink.

"You here with one of those blokes?" He inclines his head toward our table, and I glance over to see that you're back from the loo and watching me, eyes narrowed, as you talk to James.

"Not so you'd notice."

He smiles, and his fingertips brush my arm. His eyes are flirting with me. "Trying to make someone jealous?"

"Maybe."

"I'd love to help." He leans in closer and I shiver as his lips graze my ear. "How jealous shall we make him?"

My eyes dart back to the table. You're still watching. I wonder if you can hear any of this? I lick my lips and smile as easily as I can, leaning in closer. "You don't mind that I'm here with someone?"

He quirks his brow and gives me a one-shouldered shrug. "I'm not looking for love, Gorgeous. But I'll meet you in the loo in five minutes if you're up for it."

A delicious shiver of shock dances through my belly. This is almost fun. But only because I know you're watching. Do you feel anything yet, Moony?

"I don't even know your name."

He grins. "Exciting, isn't it?"

And then your hand is clamped so tight around my arm that it goes numb, and the glass falls from my fingers to shatter on the floor.

"He's very pleased to meet you, but he has to be going now," you hiss between clenched teeth before dragging me back to the table to grab our coats. "We're going. Pete, you'll see them home safe?"

Peter nods nervously.

James is giving me a funny look, and it takes me a moment to realise it's because I'm grinning like a madman. I give him a jaunty wave with the arm I still have feeling in as we depart, because I fucking did it! I made you feel something at last, didn't I, Moony? Avoid _that_!

We duck into the nearest dark alley before you let go of my arm.

"Home. Now."

I'm not about to argue. Let's have this out, already.

I Apparate to our sitting room, and before I've even found my feet, my back slams against the wall. Your face is bare inches from mine, your eyes glowing like molten gold, and I belatedly realise that the full moon is tomorrow night. This should be fun.

"Do you imagine I _enjoy_ seeing you behave like that?" Your voice is dangerously quiet, and a shiver runs down my spine.

I tilt my head back, defiant. You can dominate me, and we both know it, but I won't be an easy prize. "Well, what d'you expect? _You've_ hardly touched me since you got back."

"You'd blame _me_ for the way you were acting tonight? Looked like you couldn't get on your knees fast enough." Your hands tighten on my shoulders. A shake. Your face is dead white. "God, Sirius, I knew you were a tart, but that was disgusting."

"You can call _me_ a tart?" I blaze, giving you a shove. "Fuck you, Remus. I've never been with _anyone_ but you. Can you say as much? I made you my fucking _world_." I don't get the words out fast enough, and the last one cracks on my tongue. I swallow.

"Yeah? Well, maybe that wasn't such a good idea," you say coldly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I spit.

"Just that it's made you act like a jealous psychopath over nothing. You think I've been unfaithful to you? Is that why you were acting like a whore in public tonight?"

I can feel a nasty smile curving my mouth. "Oh, you want to talk about whores, do you, Remus? Well, what about your French tart?"

"God _damn_ you, Sirius!" Your hand twitches up, and for an instant I think you might hit me, before you make a fist and drop it back down to your side. "Don't you say a bloody _word_ about him. You know _nothing_ about that!"

I fold my arms across my chest and glare at you. "Well, maybe if you _told_ me instead of just making me listen to you screw him in your sleep - '_Oh, Alexandre!_' You fucked him, didn't you?"

Before I can blink, I hit the wall again, hard enough to knock the wind out of me this time, your body pressed tight to mine.

"I never fucking _touched_ him," you hiss.

And then your mouth is on mine, burning, insistent. My fingers clench in the fabric of your shirt, and I bite down hard on your lip. I'm not ready to yield just yet.

You jerk away, cursing. There's blood on your mouth.

"But you wanted to," I accuse between gasps. "I'll bet you wanted to make him _scream_."

"Not as much as I want to make _you_ right now."

"So do it, already!"

I can taste the blood on your lips, and it's debatable who is dragging whom into the bedroom. I feel my shirt tear, but I don't care. Yours is going to be missing a few buttons and Goddamn it, Moony, get these trousers off me right fucking now, because _this_ is what I've been waiting for since you came back.

But you're not about to let me believe I've won this, are you? No, you always have to be the one in control.

"On the bed. Hands and knees."

We usually do this face to face, but if this is what you want right now, then take it, and with my compliments. You're fumbling with the lube, and then you're there behind me, and _God_, aren't you even going to touch me? I get no more than your hands on my waist, holding me in place as you push into me, but even that is enough to make me moan.

"Is this what you wanted, Sirius?" you pant. "You were acting like a common whore tonight. Did you want to be used like one? Did you want that Muggle to do this to you?"

With a sharp thrust, you're deep inside, and I bite back a whimper.

"Yes, let me hear you, slut. I know you like this."

I hate you almost as much as I love you right now, and if this is how you need me, then this is what I am. You want a whore tonight? I can be that. I grind my hips back against you, moaning loudly, taking your cock as deeply as I can, and I'm rewarded with a deep, guttural growl of pleasure.

"You never answered my question, slut." Your voice has that ragged edge to it that tells me it won't be long now. "Is this what you wanted?"

"_Yes!_" I hiss. "Wanted you to fuck me for ages. Needed to feel you inside. _God_, Moony, fucking _touch_ me or I'll die!"

"Do it yourself if you want it so bad, whore."

With a groan of frustration, I shift my weight to my left hand, my arm shaking under the force of your rough thrusts, and reach between my legs. My fingers brush my painfully swollen cock, but I need to touch you first - to feel where we're joined. My fingers find slickness, and then I can feel you sliding against my touch as you pound into me, feel myself stretched wide around you. _God_, I needed this! My slippery fingers wrap around my aching shaft as another moan escapes my throat.

"Come for me," you growl, hands tightening on my hips. "I want to feel you."

It doesn't take much. I'm so close already. A few rough, unsteady strokes, and my balls tighten, I feel myself contract around you, and I'm coming hard, stroking the warm slipperiness into my flesh as I milk the last of my orgasm onto the stained bedspread.

Your hips stutter to a halt. "_Sirius_ -" you hiss, and then you're over the edge, shuddering in helpless spasms against me.

My arm gives out, and we topple gracelessly onto the bed in a messy, sweaty tangle.

I think I deserve a fucking gold medal, don't you?

* * *

The day after the full moon, I'm at Order headquarters while you're recovering at home. Of course I know I should be there taking care of you, but Dumbledore's asked to see me. Hopefully this won't take long, and I can be home before you wake up again.

For now, I'm waiting in Dumbledore's office, daydreaming about the night before last. It's been a damn long time since we had a night like that, hasn't it? I'd almost forgotten how - _single-minded_ you can be the night before the full moon, waking me time and again to your demands. Dunno how I managed it around classes and staying out all night with you on the full when we were at school. I wince slightly, shifting in my seat. You still know how to make sure I'll feel it in the morning - and for days after. I'm exhausted, and I want nothing more at the moment than to be curled up around you, sleeping it off.

Dumbledore sweeps into the room, and I rise to greet him. I know that he's a busy man with a lot of demands on his time, and I'm curious as to why he's sent for me.

"You wanted to see me, Headmaster?"

He flashes me a tired smile. "You're not at school any longer, Sirius. I've told you before, you may dispense with titles and call me 'Albus'."

I grin. "All right, Albus." It sounds so strange! "You wanted to see me?"

"A package arrived for you last night."

That's a surprise. "What? Here? From who?"

"There was no return address, and the owl was not one I recognised. A long-distance flier, by the look of it, though." He fumbles in a drawer and hands me a very small, tidy bundle. "Due to the curious nature of the delivery, I was hoping to prevail upon you to open it here."

I shrug and take out my old pocket knife - the one you gave me for my twelfth birthday, do you remember, Moony? - and cut the string. The bundle falls open to reveal a tiny stoppered flask filled with some sort of swirling, silvery gas.

"What is it?"

"I believe it is - a memory." There's an odd note to Dumbledore's voice that makes me look up.

I'm confused. "Who would be sending me their memories?"

"I do not know. Perhaps it will become clear once you see its contents."

"How do I do that?"

"You may borrow my Pensieve. I've brought it down with me from Hogwarts. I like to keep it close at hand in these difficult and confusing days."

A Pensieve, it turns out, is a large stone basin in which memories may be deposited and viewed. I've never seen nor heard of one before, so I'm betting they're pretty rare. I wonder where Dumbledore got his?

I unstop the flask and dump its contents out over the basin. The silvery gas pours like a liquid, and forms a shallow, glassy pool.

"Do you wish me to accompany you into the memory?" asks Dumbledore.

I lick my lips. The memory was sent to me, and I've no idea what's in it. Maybe it's best if I see it alone first. "Nothing can - happen to me while I'm in there, right?"

The headmaster shakes his head, but his usually-smiling mouth has a troubled set to it. "Physically, you will be in no danger."

"Right. What do I do, then?" Curious as I am about this little mystery, I want to get this over with as quickly as possible and get back to where I'm needed.

Dumbledore motions me to duck my head into the Pensieve, and suddenly, I'm looking down into what looks like a pub. It's not one I recognise. It's dimly-lit, and there's something odd about the people that I can't immediately put my finger on. There's a disorienting moment, and then I'm standing on my feet, looking around. Oh, that's it. They're speaking French.

Since my own knowledge of the French language is limited to the phrase "_toujours pur_" and the names of various foods, I can pick up no sense from any of the conversations going on around me. But a sinking sensation in my guts tells me that I already know what this is about. You're here somewhere, aren't you, Moony?

It's not a very big place, so it doesn't take me long to find you. You're sitting at a small table in a shadowy corner with a glass of red wine in your hand. And him.

It's sort of surreal how I can walk right up to you, and you won't look at me or acknowledge me in any way. It feels like it did just after you came back, in a way. You continue your conversation with one another in low voices, unaware of my presence. I may not be able to understand a word of it, but I can read body language and the tone of his voice well enough. He's flirting with you. There's just the hint of a smile on his red lips, and those blue eyes never waver over the rim of his wineglass as he leans forward, touching your arm. And you - your eyes are hungry and gold and you're looking at him like you're only supposed to look at _me_, damn you!

As I watch, he leans in closer and kisses your mouth. You look surprised, my Moony, and for a second, I think - I hope - you're going to push him away. But then your arm goes around his waist, and you're pulling him in close, mouths and hungry tongues devouring one another.

With a cry, I rush forward to drag you away from him, but my hand closes on nothing. I'm a ghost in this scene, and you don't even know I'm here. All I can do is watch as he surrenders in your arms, face turned eagerly up to yours.

My legs are trembling too badly to hold me, and I'm on my knees, begging, pleading with you to _stop, please, for God's sake, Moony! I love you I love you I love you -_

But then you _do_ stop, and that's even worse. Because then he smiles and gets up and takes your hand and leads you out of that place, and I'm left alone with two half-empty wineglasses and the sound of my heart breaking.

As the scene goes dim around me, I cover my face with my hands. I don't want to see any more. This is hell and I'm in it.

"Sirius! Sirius, lad, are you well?" A hand shakes me by the shoulder.

I'm on my knees in Dumbledore's office at headquarters, staring dumbly at a stone basin filled with swirling mist. I look up dully into concerned blue eyes.

"He lied to me, Professor," I whisper, desolation howling through me. "Remus lied to me."

* * *

It took a while - couple of hours and five or six cups of hot calming tea - before I stopped shaking and started being fucking well hacked off with you. Because I gave you every fucking opportunity to tell me the fucking truth about what happened in France, didn't I? I even asked you point-fucking-blank if you fucked him. And you hedged and waffled for _weeks_, but in the end, you told me you didn't, you fucking liar!

You're sitting up in bed when I arrive home, sipping cold tea. I gather up your clothes from the floor and hurl them into your lap.

"Get up. We're going to headquarters."

"What's happened?"

"A fucking epiphany. Now get your arse out of bed."

I don't help you dress - I don't really want to touch you right now - so it takes a few minutes before we're ready to go. Waiting does not improve my mood.

We Floo back to headquarters, and I have to touch you then, because you're still weak and the journey has made you dizzy. I let you lean on my arm as we make our way upstairs, but that's all. Dumbledore has left his office unlocked at my request, but he's gone about his business for the afternoon, so we have the room to ourselves. Good. I don't particularly want any interruptions.

You narrow your eyes as I lift the stone basin onto the desk in front of you.

"That's a Pensieve."

Well, bully for you, Professor Half-Blood; you know more about the magical world than I do.

"You know how it works?"

You nod slowly.

"Right, then. In you go."

I follow you into the silvery mist, and we land side by side in the French pub, but this time, I'm not looking anywhere but at your face. You know right away where you are. Your eyes go immediately to the incriminatingly cosy couple in the corner.

"Where did you get this, Sirius?"

"A friend sent it."

"Who?"

A shrug. "No idea. But you know what? I'm glad they did."

"We were followed," you murmur, and you're not talking to me anymore.

You're looking around at the faces of the patrons, trying to spot the spy, but everyone is turned away, or engaged in their own conversations. Everyone except a cloaked and hooded figure near the door. The hood is so deep it's impossible to make out the face, but it's clear that his - or her, I suppose - eyes are fixed on you and the boy.

"Who are you?" you muse.

"Does it matter? Look! Look at that!"

And I'm watching you again as your arm sweeps around that French tart's waist and you pull him close for a kiss.

"Do I even need to tell you how much I fucking hate you right now, you fucking liar?" It's a cold, sick feeling, because in almost ten years that we've known each other, I've never hated you. I've never hated anyone this much. And, _God_, it hurts, Moony. How could you do this to me? "You could've just told me we were through."

For a long moment, you stand watching the proof of your infidelity unfold, and then you turn to me, your hand out - "Sirius," - and I turn away.

"If you've got to break my heart, then bloody well smash it and get it over with, Moony. I'm tired of you ripping it apart piece by piece."

"Sirius - Padfoot - I'm sorry."

The anger is back, blazing in my chest as I whirl on you. "Sorry? You're _sorry_?! Sorry you got caught? You could've been sorry about _this_ as soon as you got home. But you fucking _lied_ to me, Remus. You told me you didn't - you never -"

"Sirius, I _didn't_. That -" you flap your hand at the disgusting display "- that was a moment of weakness. The full moon coming on, and the wine, and the danger we were in. And I regret it. I do. But Sirius, I swear to you. Nothing. Else. Happened."

"And you expect me to believe that? When you're moaning his name in your sleep, and you won't even touch me without me pushing you to it? What am I supposed to think, except that it's _him_ you want now, and not me?"

Your face is set, jaw clenched. "You want to know what happened? Do you, Sirius? Fine. Let me show you what we were headed into."

You draw your wand and raise it to your temple, drawing out a fine strand of silver. It costs you. You're too weak for much magic yet. But you flick your wand like a whip, sending the memory arcing into the air. The pub shimmers out of focus, and we're standing in a forest at dawn.

There's blood everywhere. The mangled bodies of a man and a woman are sprawled nearby. You're lying at our feet, naked and torn, just waking up. You're weaker and hurt worse than you were this morning, but there's no one here to help you. I watch as you rise painfully to your knees.

"_Alexandre! Alexandre! Où es-tu?_" you call out hoarsely.

The only answer is a weak moan from the bushes. You crawl over on your hands and knees and disentangle what's left of Alexandre d'Argenson. He's not pretty anymore. The remains of a crown of laurels is tangled in his matted hair. His left eye is a well of blood. Three fingers of his right hand are missing, bitten off. The tears and rents of teeth and claws cover the remainder of his body. But somehow, he's breathing. There are tears in your eyes as you gather him into your arms, murmuring soothing words.

"Is this what you wanted to see?"

I look up, numb, to where you're standing beside me, staring at the scene, face unreadable.

"What happened?"

You shake your head. Your voice when you speak sounds dead and dull. "It was just some stupid prophecy. A boy with a birthmark, born to a wolf mother. Voldemort promised them that sacrificing him would give them control over their transformations." Your eyes find mine, searching for understanding. "But he had to be a virgin. They charmed him to keep him from women, and told him that if he didn't show up on the appointed night, they would kill his mother and his sister. So he tried to foil their plans in the only way left open to him."

"But you didn't -?"

"He crawled into my bed that night after what you saw in the pub. Tried to get me to - That's when I made him tell me everything. D'you want to see that memory, too? Is that the proof you need that I've been faithful to you?"

I hang my head, defeated. "No. I believe you. But -"

"But what, Sirius?" Your voice is gentle now. All your anger has fled, and only deep sadness remains.

I look at you, eyes pleading. "But, Moony, if you wanted to confound the prophecy, then why didn't you -?"

There's an almost-smile in the corner of your mouth. "Prophecies are bollocks, Padfoot. It was just some stupid legend Voldemort was using to try to get the werewolves on his side."

We stand together in silence, watching you hold the dying boy in the dawn light, weeping and murmuring and kissing his face. I'm not angry anymore. He deserved better than he got. Maybe he even deserved someone like you.

He's trying to speak, and it sounds like you're promising him something.

"What did he say?"

"He asked about his sister."

I'm about to ask about his sister, too, but the words die in my throat as you - the you on the ground at our feet - look around, desperate. Your eyes fall on an object lying in the grass nearby. A silver knife, the blade dark with dried blood. You retrieve a piece of torn fabric, wrapping it around your hand before you pick it up.

"Moony -"

"This is the part I didn't want to have to talk about, Padfoot."

I watch, stunned, as you give the boy a last soft word and a kiss, and draw the blade across his throat. There's a gush of red, his body twitches violently, and then he's still.

"There was no way to summon help." Your voice is so soft I can barely hear it over the sound of the other you weeping at my feet. "I didn't know where my wand was, and there wasn't a village for miles. He might have lasted the day, but it would have been a slow, agonising death. He didn't deserve that."

"Oh, Moony -" My heart is breaking all over again. For you this time, instead of against you. I turn to you, reaching out, but your eyes are still riveted on the scene.

The other you kisses the dead boy's blood-smeared lips tenderly and rises shakily to his feet, looking around. There's a small cottage hidden in the shadow of the trees, and you enter, emerging a moment later wrapped in a woollen blanket. In silence, we follow your laboured progress up a hill to a rocky outcrop. You kneel down at an opening in the rock, and -

"_Oh_."

She's scratched and bruised and shivering, and she can't be more than two years old. You draw her out, wrapping her into the blanket with you. She huddles against your chest, crying too quietly for a child so young as you carry her back down to the cottage and disappear inside.

"Her name was Amabilis. She was born a wolf. Her parents were dead." Your eyes stray briefly to the mangled bodies on the rocky ground below before turning at last to me. And now, after everything, there are tears on your cheeks. "I wanted her to be ours. I tried, Padfoot. For more than a week after, I fought the French Ministry for custody. But they wouldn't let me keep her. Goddamn it, Padfoot! _No one_ could care for her better than we could!"

With a sob, you crumble, but it doesn't matter, because I'm there to catch you. Always there for you, my Moony. We're huddled on the floor of Dumbledore's office and you're breaking down in my arms, sobbing your heart out, your beautiful tears falling on me like a blessing, and I feel like I'm flying, because you _do_ need me after all, and so long as that's true, then nothing else matters.

"C'mon, Moony," I whisper against your hair. "Let's go home."

* * *

The plan is to get you back to bed. To hold you and kiss you and sleep with my arms around you all through the night, and in the morning, to make love to you with the slow devotion that you deserve.

But now we're home, and I've missed something, because you're packing again.

"What are you doing?"

Hands on the bed. Head bent. Not looking at me. "I think - I need to go home for a bit. See my family."

"But - when will you be back?"

"I don't know."

"Soon?"

"I don't _know_, Sirius."

And that's when it hits me. You're leaving me. After everything, you're _leaving_ me. I sag against the door frame.

"Moony, please. Don't -"

"Please don't make this harder than it has to be, Sirius." You're back in control now, as I'm spiralling away from it.

"But - I love you, Moony." My voice cracks with desperation.

You do look up then, beautiful eyes so sad. "I love you, too, Padfoot. I'm just - not all that certain we're good for one another anymore."

How can you say that, when all I've ever done is try to make myself better for you? "So you're just going to run away? Can't we talk about this?"

You sit down on the bed with a sigh, scrubbing your hands over your face. "That's half the problem, Padfoot. We don't talk about things anymore. I know that's half my fault, and I'm sorry. I should've told you what happened in France, but it was just such a bloody awful mess that I didn't want to go through it all again."

I'm kneeling on the floor at your feet, wanting to touch you, to comfort you, but suddenly I'm not sure if I'm allowed to anymore. "We've talked about it now, Moony. And I understand. I'm sorry I was such a prick before." Don't leave me. Don't make me pointless again.

You give me a wan smile. "Being a prick is part of your charm, Padfoot. I wouldn't want you to change."

"But if I'm not good for you then I _need_ to change, don't I? Just tell me what you need, Moony. I can be anything you want."

The sadness is back. "That's the other part of the problem, isn't it, Padfoot? We've come to depend on one another too much."

"What's wrong with people needing each other?" I'm angry again. I don't want to be angry with you again today. There's been too much of that already. "I want to help you through this. I want us to do this together. I want -"

"People don't always get everything they want, Sirius. It's time you learned that. I want to stay, but -"

"Then stay. Stay with me. Let's go to bed, Moony. We can talk about this tomorrow."

But you're shaking your head. "I think we both need some time to think about the bigger picture."

The bigger picture. When have I ever given a fuck about the bigger picture? Maybe I'm a selfish tosser, but all I want is for this war to be over with so that everything can be safe and good for us and our friends again. I see my mistake now, though. It was in thinking that I was your world as you are mine. But your world is bigger than that, isn't it, Moony? That's part of what I love about you, even when I hate it. Even when it means you're walking away from me.

I follow you to the sitting room, feeling lost, and watch numbly as you throw Floo powder onto the grate.

"I'll see you soon, Padfoot," you promise, and I suppose that's better than "goodbye", even if it means the same thing.

Then you're gone, and I'm left in ruins behind you as the tears begin to fall.


End file.
